The Chill Ahead

On the cusp of winter,

towards Autumn’s end,

I find myself,


My stores are not full.

My work is not done.

But still,

without relent,

December’s breath


a foreboding chill,

reminding me of the

sparse winter,

bitter roots,

and hunger,

that lay ahead.

And the sun dies daily,

an exhausted Sisyphus on the horizon,

reduced from gold

to a waning memory of summer.

I breath in the deep,

earthy air of Autumn

and dread the chill

that hangs ahead.

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